The Ghost Rebellion

by Pip Ballantine, Tee Morris

  And the heads of the House of Usher were all presently inside it.

  What Wolf blurted out made Jeremy nearly scream. “A fine way to show your gratitude, Mudgett, since I believe you were saved by the House. Hardly the sign of an aimless organisation possessing the resources to find someone to take your place at the hangman’s noose?”

  Using Holmes’ actual name may have been Wolf’s attempt at retaliation for using his real name openly, but the intended insult only had the effect of making the man pause and close his eyes for a moment. The breath he took seemed to last forever, prolonging Bear’s final wail. He gave a slight shrug. “I would have enlightened you, Milford, on my intentions for the House. I would have gladly enlightened all of you, but I don’t feel a pressing need to disclose anything to a syndicate of cutpurses, charlatans, and ne’er-do-wells peddling snake oil at carnivals.”

  At that moment Jeremy was certain the remaining board members were about to be swept into the same dark chamber as Mr Bear.

  “My first official act as the new Lord of the Manor—eliminate this ridiculous title. ‘Lord of the Manor’ makes me sound as if I should be adorned with ornate robes, blood-soaked proclamations in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other.” Holmes rolled his eyes, groaning softly. “How utterly Baroque.”

  “What should we call you then?” Mr Tiger asked.

  “I can think of a few things,” Mr Lion offered.

  Holmes replied to Lion’s slight with a wry grin. “Something more practical. Chairman.”

  Now it was Mr Lion who groaned. “How very American.”

  “I like it,” Wolf replied.

  Jeremy tightened his jaw. Adams had always been a right bootlicker.

  “So, let me see,”—and the entire table flinched as Holmes reached into his coat pocket. He produced a small notepad, which he flipped to what Jeremy could see was a list of items. Holmes made small checks as he read off— “the induction of new leadership, disciplinary action carried out on Mr Bear, title change. Any other pressing business, gentlemen?”

  The boardroom remained silent, as did the room underneath.

  “A rather productive first day, if I do say so myself. Well then, as Chairman, I hereby bring this meeting to a close. We will convene here again in—shall we say—a month’s time? In order to give our Russian associates ample time to find a replacement?”

  “I will see to that straight away,” Tiger stated. Then he added, “Chairman.”

  “Most kind of you.” Every board member cringed as Holmes’ finger slipped deftly to an amber button at the top of the console. “The staff will see you to the door.”

  With a final nod, the directors all stood in unison.

  “Mr Fox,” Holmes said, “Stay for a moment, if you please.”

  Each representative regarded Jeremy for a moment. The primitive part of his brain screamed at him to get up and run for the door. It wasn’t that far. Easy distance to cross. The more logical part assured him he would be dead within three steps.

  “But of course,” Jeremy replied, easing back into his own chair.

  The door opened, and three men filed in. Though they were dressed in the typical dark suits of the House, they were much taller—all over six and a half feet. They also had curiously white hair for young men. A shudder ran down Jeremy’s spine as he observed how their eyes remained fixed on unseen points in space above them. As their faces were elevated slightly, it was impossible for the dim light of the room to not catch the milky substance that undulated within their pupils.

  “You rang, sir?” the lead valet asked.

  “Yes, Barnsley,” Holmes said, opening his journal to a blank page, “please escort the board members out.”

  “Safely, sir?” he asked, his query capturing everyone’s attention.

  Holmes jotted down a few notes in his pad, and then replied, “This time, yes.”

  Barnsley nodded curtly and stepped back, motioning to the door where the remaining valets, blind as their leader, stood on either side.

  Sharing uneasy looks with one another, the leaders of the House of Usher disappeared from view, leaving Jeremy alone with Holmes.

  “Mr Jeremy Elliot,” Holmes said as he leaned back in his chair, “as it is only you and I present, I am making the rather bold assumption I can drop with the alias pretence. Fox, Dingo, Wolf, Bear...a bit trite, don’t you think?”

  “The less we know about one another—” Jeremy began.

  “Yes, yes, I know—plausible deniability, secrecy maintained, but really, it’s traditions like that which keep the House anchored in its own past. Besides, you lot spy so incessantly on one another, you all not only know one another’s true names, you know their families, their intimate acquaintances, and probably what they had for breakfast this morning.” Holmes shook his head. “And yet we call ourselves ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ when we know so very little about each other, about our passions...” He leaned forward. “Our obsessions. This archivist I have heard tell of—” Holmes returned his attention to the ink still drying against the open page. “Wellington Thornhill Books. I want to know everything about him.”

  Jeremy stumbled on this new title. It would take some getting used to. “Chairman...”

  “Henry, please,” he said.

  Jeremy cleared his throat. He was desperate for a drink. “Henry, as head of the House, you now have access to mission dossiers. I beli—”

  “Jeremy,” Holmes sighed, and on that exhale Jeremy’s flight response bucked and kicked like a wild horse trapped in a pen, “I am sure there are some fascinating reports at my disposal, but that is not what I want. I want the third element of our new foundation. We have Authority. We will have Accountability. What I want is what you want: Achilles. I want to hear your personal thoughts concerning this great hope of the House of Usher. I want to hear of what had been promised to us decades ago, about the progress made by both Arthur Books and Dr Henry Jekyll, and about the boy that grew to become Wellington Thornhill Books, archivist for the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences. I want to understand your obsession.” Holmes urged, his pen at the ready, “I want to hear all about it, from the beginning.”

  Chapter Two

  When Our Colonial Pepperpot and Dashing Archivist Set Foot in India, a Land of Many Surprises

  Bombay in January was a lovely change from wintry London—though granted it was still crisp, reminiscent of the beginning of spring or autumn back home. While the climate was certainly a dramatic change to what she was accustomed to at this time of year, it was their current mission that gave Eliza D. Braun pause.

  Wellington was still on board, retrieving from the First Officer’s log the final co-ordinates on where Featherstone had gone down. It was a very small chance he’d survived, but a Ministry submersible would be sent to the area, just in case. With Featherstone lost to the watery depths, the only tenuous hope remaining was to track down where he was staying and whom he was meeting in India.

  Eliza was already eager to get back to their pursuit of Dr Henry Jekyll, but her stomach fluttered with uncertainty. This was not London, there were no sharp-eyed Ministry Seven to help out, and it had been many years since she’d been here. Gaining local insight was going to be the first call of business.

  From what she understood, the Indian Branch—the largest divisional office outside of Great Britain—had taken quite the pounding from the Department of Imperial Inconveniences. Those tossers in tweed had been responsible for the deaths of many good agents, including its director, Kamod Tandon. However, with the reinstatement of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences, the India office was getting back on its proverbial feet, and operations were slowly returning to normal.

  Sadly, the same could not be said for their ruling monarch. Freed of the effects of Jekyll’s serum, Victoria had reverted to a quiet, if slightly difficult, old lady. Doctor Sound had confided to her and Wellington, just before leaving on their hunt for Jekyll, that the side-effects of the serum had probably shortened Her
Majesty’s life by a few years. “She would be fortunate to live into the next century,” he had told them.

  The domino effects when Victoria inevitably passed on Eliza could not predict, but as she looked around the dock, she suspected they would be wide reaching. Victoria was Empress of India, and even though she had never set foot on the continent, her death would surely bring changes.

  All those concerns aside though, Eliza would never forget the immense satisfaction of punching the ruling monarch of the British Empire square in the face. Quite fulfilling. A story for grandchildren.

  Turning around, Eliza looked towards the city of Bombay itself. She did not know India well, her work only bringing her here on two occasions, and she did not much like the idea of chasing Jekyll over unfamiliar ground. With climate and culture in mind, she had dressed in linen pants which were cut for the female form, along with a simple cotton top. Perhaps the blouse might show off a fraction too much of her breasts for London or even Indian society, but it kept her cool.

  With a glance to her pocket watch, she turned back to scan the wharf for Wellington. He had probably got into some technical discussion with the First Officer and Navigator and forgotten all about the time. Still, Eliza didn’t like him being out of sight. Despite his skills, he was still an archivist at heart, not a field agent. Besides, as soon as their contact arrived, she wanted to be away.

  The wharf in Bombay harbour bustled and pulsed with activity. The flotilla around them was disgorging all sorts of cargo: spices from other regions, beer for the military, building materials from Europe, and ice from Scandinavia. Meanwhile, Indian products were being loaded onto other ships, especially cotton, silk and tea. The African Sunset was moored alongside other pleasure craft, but theirs appeared to be the only one presently disembarking passengers. So much chaos provided all kinds of ways for the two agents to be blindsided.

  Eliza sighed softly and strode over to what could serve as the most advantageous tactical position: by the luggage, close to their boat, slightly set aside from the hubbub. This position offered the best of the terrible sight lines. As she smoothed down her trousers, Eliza checked by habit the location of her pistols under her jacket. Wellington had been gone some time, and that meant her mind conjured all sorts of things happening to him.

  Then a voice broke though, tearing her away from the horrific phantasmagoria. “Eliza?”

  At the sound of her name, she spun around, hand already reaching for her pistol, but then she stopped. Those who approached were practically on top of her, but thankfully they were friends. One of them at least, while the other looked strangely familiar.

  “Now the Eliza D Braun I am familiar with,” began Agent Maulik Smith, his artificial vocal apparatus unable to remove the mirth in his tone, “would have never let me sneak up on her like this.”

  “Long voyage,” she returned with a twist of her lips.

  “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  She managed to keep her face still. “More like eventful.”

  “Oh dear,” he said, “I am surprised the ship is intact.”

  Maulik looked the same as ever, his entire head encased within the large mask he was forced to wear. He never talked about the mission that sentenced him to a life within a walking respirator. Besides, it was not as if his abilities in the field were ever dampened by this disability. He was as formidable now as he had been the day she first met him—just in different ways.

  Things, however, had changed following the Diamond Jubilee. His battle with the Maestro had bought Wellington and Eliza precious time to escape with Queen Victoria, but had cost him his ability to walk. Before their departure, Eliza had seen her friend in a wheelchair, provided by the hospital. This one looked as if it had been provided by R&D.

  “You mentioned returning home to India,” Eliza began, extending her hand to him.

  “I did, but not quite as I would have imagined,” he chortled, bringing her hand up to where his lips would have been.

  “Come again?”

  “What Director Smith means,” said the young female protégée at his side, “is that retirement did not suit him in the least.”

  Eliza stared at Maulik. “Director Smith?”

  “Shortly after you and Wellington went off gallivanting across England and such,” he began, “Director Sound approached me with a proposition. He was rather dismayed about losing me, it seemed, so he asked me to take the reins here.”

  Eliza released a delighted laugh. “Then congratulations, Director Smith.”

  The masked agent shook his head. “No. Still not used to hearing that.”

  “Do not let this modesty fool you,” said the Indian woman tending to him. “He rules with an iron fist.”

  Maulik turned his head to the agent and held up one of his hands. “I prefer leather-encased fist, thank you very much.”

  “The work he has accomplished in these past few months has been a true credit to the Ministry,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Director Smith has been an inspiration to all of us here at the India office.”

  The dark-skinned girl, her features seemingly plucked out of a memory, continued to distract Eliza. What was it about this young lady?

  “I take it you are an agent of the Ministry then?” Eliza brazenly asked.

  “Oh, where are my manners?” Maulik said. He then motioned to the diminutive girl at his side. “May I introduce Field Agent Pujari? Your liaison for the length of your stay.”

  The name from the past almost knocked Eliza back a step.

  “Pujari?” she asked, offering her hand to this new, yet familiar face. “I take it you are—”

  “I am Vania. Ihita was my sister,” she replied, her grin somewhat tight.

  All of a sudden, Eliza did not know where to look. Ihita, one of her closest friends in the Ministry, had not been the first agent killed in the field, but her loss had hit Eliza particularly hard. Her death had been painful and completely unnecessary.

  “She was a fine agent,” Eliza stated, her voice suddenly sounding frail even to herself, “and we in the London office still miss her very much.”

  “Of course she was, but she is missed by more than just the Ministry.” Vania’s words sounded rehearsed, and as if they had been repeated over and over again.

  A healthy dollop of guilt with a dash of regret was not quite the arrival to India Eliza had been anticipating, but there it was.

  “I say, Eliza,” Maulik said, his voice sounding louder than what would be considered proper, “is that Books?”

  She was not one to be so easily distracted, but here she was being caught hot-footed again; first, being snuck up on, and now face-to-face with Ihita’s sister. Eliza might as well have been naked and dancing a can-can down the streets of Bombay. Instead, she turned and looked up the gangway. Wellington Books adjusted his fine brown bowler, which now carried the added accessory of tinted goggles wrapped about its hatband, and tapped the shoulder of a passing porter. Even though distance denied them any chance of overhearing what was said, she already knew the subject matter. He was once again reminding some poor employee about how important—and extremely delicate, from the look of his gestures to the porter—his luggage was. The man did love his devices, and even if he had been unable to bring the Ares with him, he had not left London empty-handed.

  “Why yes,” she replied lightly, quite relieved to see her partner, “that would be him.”

  From Maulik’s vocaliser came a soft chuckle that burbled and rumbled through the pipes of his life support. Eliza guessed he was smiling. Maulik and the archivist had formed quite a bond during the battle for London, and so when Wellington’s feet touched the soil of India, he was pulled downward to be enveloped in a hug.

  Eliza got a great deal of satisfaction in watching her partner’s face twist in surprise and embarrassment. It was strange how much she had come to love Wellington Books, and yet still enjoyed working his levers. Despite everything that they had been through, he still managed to h
old onto the very correctness of his English upbringing. At least in public.

  She let out a little sigh, thinking of their more private time on this journey. As always, it was not nearly enough. Priority, she thought whimsically. Find more time alone with Agent Books. Not Mission Critical, but definitely Me Critical.

  When Maulik released Wellington, she found herself guiding him over to their liaison. “Agent Wellington Thornhill Books, may I introduce Agent Vania Pujari, our liaison.”

  Wellington’s eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing under his bowler hat. “Pujari?” She wondered what was going through his mind, and if he would possibly bring back the awkwardness that his arrival had so conveniently pushed aside. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  The young woman’s face softened a bit. It seemed that Wellington’s wide-eyed charm was irresistible. “Likewise, Agent Books. Welcome to Bombay.”

  Well done, my love, Eliza thought, with a smile.

  “Let’s move along then,” Maulik said. “Not the most secure location to talk business.”

  The three of them nodded, and Maulik took charge of things after that, ushering them through the chaotic streets of Bombay. Eliza saw British military made up a large portion of the crowd, their uniforms in stark contrast to the explosion of colour around them. Loose cows wandered through the press, finding their own paths. Bicycle bells rang noisily, barely heard over the angry snarl of motorbikes and the calls of vendors at the edge of the crowd. Bombay was a far cry from the staid composure of London. Noisy and impossible to ignore, Eliza recalled why she liked India so much.

  Apparently, Wellington was just about to find a reason to like India too. When Maulik raised his arm, a large gleaming brass trunk rose in the air and let out a trumpet that sent the crowd scampering. The automaton elephant lumbered up to where they stood, quite snatching Eliza’s breath from her. One glance at Wellington, and she knew she had competition for his affections.